


approaching an interstice

by Dorminchu



Series: mourning period [3]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Experimental Style, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Control, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Pseudo-Incest, Season/Series 04, Self-Hatred, Spoilers, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, watching season 4 is like getting kicked in the teeth, written before 4x07
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 00:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorminchu/pseuds/Dorminchu
Summary: “The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.” ― Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses





	approaching an interstice

**Author's Note:**

> The relationship between Elliot and Mr. Robot seems almost impossible to fathom, given its abstract nature and occasionally unsettling subtext. I'd say that I just want Elliot to be okay in the end, but his definition of "okay" is probably a lot less grounded in normalcy than I'd care to admit.

The streets are packed this time of year. Makes getting around the city a pain in the ass, but Elliot's managing better than I could. There's a chill in the air that only accentuates the emptiness around us, despite the overwhelming presence of people. If our situation doesn't change soon, it's gonna be one miserable fucking Christmas. 

You've probably noticed it, too. I'll catch his eyes wandering back to the tracks on the subway; you know how he gets when he's bored. He wants me to stay, even if he'll never admit it to himself. And yeah, it gets a little tedious going around in circles with this kid: _you're not gonna see Angela if you off yourself because neither of us know what happens after you die; if you smash your head open, Whiterose wins and everything we've sacrificed is null and void; come on, Elliot, are you a one, or a zero?_

He listens, I know he does, or else we wouldn't be here. I just wish he'd talk to you again.

* * *

He's always there, no matter where I go or what I'm doing. But now I'm aware of this, at peace with it, and I don't think he likes that much. 

The stress never goes away. But it's identifiable, as long as we continue to exist. The grief never goes away either, but it's not something I'm ready to deal with; no point mourning someone if their sacrifices will inevitably go to waste.

He follows me back to the apartment. No one is going to break down the door (except Darlene). No one is going to ask Qwerty for information—_shit_, I forgot about Qwerty.

I don't even know if she's still alive.

Can a fish feel hatred, or loneliness?

I'm at my door now. Hand hesitates on the knob; I don't really want to know what will happen once I'm inside. But I know he won't let me wait to find out.

Qwerty's there, floating in her bowl. She shifts when I approach. She's my only real friend, now, apart from Flipper. I make sure to feed her before I forget; we'll have to get her more flakes soon.

Our days are numbered, and perspective is key; Mr. Robot was right about that. When you're busy planning revenge, it doesn't leave much time for topics that don't involve the nature of that vengeance. It's not like Darlene is going to magically reach out to me (not that I want her to), or _Angela_—

The bitter taste resurfaces. I can't help it. There is no suitable word left to express my sadness, only the absence of it. I don't have time to grieve while Whiterose is still breathing, enacting her plan. And if I'm being honest with myself, I'll have to shoulder a lot of the blame. There are a lot of people I could think about. Maybe it's the childhood friendship that hurts to lose. I should have tried harder to reach her. I should've known she wasn't strong enough for this.

Is it selfish, wanting to protect her now? I don't know. Maybe the Dark Army will crash what's left of the healing economy just in time for Christmas. It'd be easier to stomach if it were my own lifeless face on-screen—fuck, _stop_ thinking about it.

"Elliot."

All we can do is keep running, find another target who'll talk, easily disposable, like Freddie. There's got to be more like him. There are always more of them. 

"I know you can hear me."

It's impossible to tell how long he's been standing by the door. Not about to give him the satisfaction of conceding, but I don't have to; he approaches in a few purposeful strides. He was always taller than me. "We have one lead, and we're sticking to it. Otherwise, you're right; your sister is just gonna go the same way as Angela if Dark Army doesn't get to us first."

It doesn't matter now, I say. She's gonna come back once she thinks we've worried long enough. That's what she does.

"Forget about Darlene. How 'bout Wellick—"

No.

"Why not?"

We're not part of his plan anymore, he'd just—

"—get in the way?" 

He was never going to work out.

"Who else do we know that can get us where we need to be, huh?" He's pacing the length of the room, indignant; a good sign after the long silence.

We're going to work together, that was our plan.

"You don't say shit to me, kid," Robot hisses. "I'll be damned if I stand idly by and watch you spin in circles."

It's never a good idea to fight with your imaginary friend—_the spitting image of your father_—I _know_ this. I just don't want to argue anymore.

And he's the only one who will listen.

That's not a good sign. Admitting defeat.

We've been at this perpetual stalemate for weeks, and I'm fucking tired.

"You're going to break eventually, and you don't want to give anyone that advantage over you. Think about yourself, for a change." Mr. Robot is not my father. Even if he smells familiar, like cigarettes and stale coffee; a dozen other things I can't parse out individually as the specifics fade over time. Even when he looks down at me, curled up on the cold wood floor, out of sight, I am still aware of my—his—true nature. But that's pretty hard to forget. He bends down to my level and instinctively I raise a hand to ward him off—his skin is warm. "It's all right, son. You've done enough."

There's something else in his tone, close to unease, and I don't know how to interpret what I'm seeing. I want to believe him, and I shouldn't. He's never going to have my priorities at heart.

When he sits next to me I can feel his breath on my face. The smell of him remains comforting. Close my eyes, but I won't be able to relax, much less forget he's there.

So now what, I say. We just sit here?

Robot hums ambiguously. I don't know what that means. We should be getting to work, planning our next move. An involuntary shiver afflicts me and I curl into him in spite of myself.

It's cold.

If I tell myself he isn't here, I don't know what he'll do. He hasn't been acting up as much as he usually does. No point in breaking the cycle.

He hasn't acknowledged me yet. 

For a moment, I hope he never does. Lets me stay here. It isn't safe. But it's almost enough to deceive me. I can't afford this now. Maybe he's right. Fuck, I don't know anymore. The first tactile, ugly emotion I've allowed myself to admit to in a while; then Robot snorts.

"Jesus, kid, you really need to jerk off."

We haven't really talked about this—well, he did all the talking—since I was in prison. There are better things to argue about; I should be angry that he's using this opportunity as a means to get inside my head; I would beat the shit out of him if he weren't as much a part of me as I am of him. But what does that really make us?

"—sounds pretty masochistic, when you put it like that," Robot interjects. "Are you sure you don't want to go back to that shrink?"

Not while he's so easily accessible. I don't need Krista to get involved in this, anyway.

"…hey, earth to Alderson."

I don't need your fucking commentary right now, I tell him.

"So what do you need?"

* * *

He curls up harder into me. Wasn't expecting that.

Elliot?

"I don't _know_."

He won't look at me. There's a sharp tremor in his voice; I can tell he's trying to pull himself together.

That's all right, kiddo.

He doesn't protest when I bring an arm around his back. It occurs to him this is the spot in the room he goes to break down. I can feel him shaking. No point in telling him to snap out of it. He's gonna be a mess if we don't let this run its course.

We're watching the old cat clock—it's not really there anymore, but exists in-mind as a frame of reference.

After seventy-two revolutions a dry sob tears out of his throat. He's breathing erratically, like he's forgotten how this works.

I know you're still here. You're always listening in. Give him a little privacy, for a change.

* * *

When it's over, the room still feels cold.

It's difficult to breathe. He's still holding me.

I know you're here, too. 

We haven't talked in a while. Sorry about that.

I don't know what you want me to say. What's done is done. I fucked over my best friend. My sister's losing her shit and probably gonna go the same way unless something changes. Just like Gideon, and Trenton, and Mobley and Shayla. Guess I'm a real shitty person sometimes.

Is that what you wanted to hear?

Maybe I can't protect everyone I care about. 

All you do is listen to me. You don't say shit. Are you even there?

What the fuck do you know about losing someone you love?

"It's all right, son."

Fuck you, it's not all right. It's not all right, I don't know what to do anymore.

No.

I'm sorry. Don't leave us like this. I can't lose you too, please—

* * *

Listen, I know you're worried. But he'll talk when he's up to it. You've seen how he gets.

Don't push your luck too hard, okay?


End file.
